


hours lost in late night talks

by Heavenward (PreludeInZ)



Series: Thunderbirds Prompts [23]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Oneshot, holographic approximations of companionship, hot toddy, polyphasic sleep, quiet introspection in the late evening hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short little interaction between Scott and John, inspired by a particularly lovely piece of art on tumblr, linked in the author's notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hours lost in late night talks

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this lovely piece of art from jycheryl](http://tb5-heavenward.tumblr.com/post/132932727517/jycheryl-midnight-talk-in-my-opinion-scott) on tumblr.

"Coffee isn't sleep, Scott."

"The nonsense you do isn't sleep, either."

The voice is disembodied at first, dark as it is on the island at midnight, it's generally considered courtesy not to flare up with a full strength hologram in the hours past darkness. So John fades into existence on the couch beside Scott, the light that comprises his presence brightening slowly so Scott's eyes can adjust.

It's a clever trick, the approximation of John's presence. It only happens four times a day, when he's perched at the edge of his own bed, high overhead in Thunderbird Five, preparing to meditate before he lies down for the half hour bursts of sleep that seem to sustain him over six hour periods. It's a cobbled together schedule that he's based off the habits of fighter pilots, astronauts, and those who've crossed oceans, solo, in tiny craft that move by wind-power alone. John sails the stars, by himself, and sleeps in brief, tightly controlled bursts, calculated and trained to maximum efficiency.

"It's called polyphasic sleep. And until world crises keep a regular schedule , then I'm going to continue to do things my way, thank you." There's a slight shift of John's image, and he clips through the couch a little, but it's still nice as he leans back and looks tired himself. "You're the one who needs to put down the caffeine. You're not cleared to fly again until you've had at least eight hours, and given the projections for typhoon season this year, it'd be best if you got them ASAP."

Scott grins and swallows a cup of hot chamomile tea. "Not coffee, actually. Chamomile and mint. What, I can't wind down?"

The huff of scoffing breath from John is so familiar that Scott would almost swear the redhead is really there. "It's just you _don't_ usually."

Scott's about to answer, but John _yawns_ , a hand coming up to cover his mouth, and suddenly older brother is squinting at younger, at a hologram he doesn't usually see in this high a resolution, this close. Seeing the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his suit's undone at the collar, loosened. The way his gloved fingertips press against his closed eyes, rubbing them and sighing. "---you gonna be okay, coasting on half hour naps for the duration of typhoon season?"

"Maybe. Probably. I have before." John's eyes narrow at the mug in Scott's hand, trailing wisps of steam into the air. "Are you gonna be taking the requisite twelve hours down, considering there's a bottle of whiskey on the table behind you, and if you're telling me that's supposed to be chamomile tea then I'll eat my helmet."

"It's a hot toddy, courtesy of Grandma. I was spotting Gordon in the North Atlantic for eight hours. Apparently I seem tense. It's about half chamomile tea, half Jack, half honey."

"That's three halves."

"It's a big mug." Scott takes a long swallow and sags against the couch, unwinding limbs that are just as long and limber as his brother's, but are burdened by four more years of age, a long day in freezing cold weather, and gravity. "Go snag your helmet, I'll wait."

John's answering grin is rare, the sort of dry humour that he and Scott so rarely share, ribbing each other. "Yeah, I'll take a raincheck until I have empircal proof that there's any tea in there at all."

"Don't make me come up there."

"Yeah, right, like I'd let you in. Your gear isn't space-rated, you'd probably wear those stupid fingerless gloves of yours and decompress your flightsuit."

Scott just laughs and sighs, contented. "Get some sleep, John."

"Get some sleep, Scott," is the answer, another late-night rarity, John mimicking Scott the same way Alan mimicks John. And then a brief pause. "Good night, Scott," he offers, in the way that Alan says good night to him, when the youngest puts in his last call to TB5 for the night.

"Good night, John," Scott answers, and raises his mug.


End file.
